


Facing Reality

by Apollo_Xandos



Category: Alexander (2004), Alexander Trilogy - Mary Renault, Alexander the Great historical, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-18 18:43:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17586275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apollo_Xandos/pseuds/Apollo_Xandos
Summary: Byblos has surrendered, and Alexander is settling affairs in the city before going on to Sidon. While in Byblos, he’s strong-armed into doing something he doesn’t want to do. Alexander's POV. #2 of the Phoenician Trilogy.





	1. Growing Up

**Author's Note:**

> This is a follow-up to “Breaking Rules,” although this story isn’t dependent except for background about Alexander and Hephaistion’s relationship. In that story, I stated the guys were sharing digs and had been for a while. Yet we know that Hephaistion, while in Sidon, asked his hosts (who were apparently different from Alexander’s) to help him choose a new king for the city. This is my attempt to explain what happened. So yeah, it’s not the happiest tale.
> 
> The /R/ is for language, not sex; they’re soldiers, they have potty mouths. This is probably not as bad as they’d actually be, with an f-bomb every third word.

“It’s time to grow the fuck up, son.”

Alexander faced off with the Old Man. “I’m not marrying the fucking _queen_. She has a husband, and he’s still _alive_. I promised to give her back. If he surrenders.”

Parmenion made a disgusted noise. “He won’t surrender for a woman, even his wife. He probably assumes you’ve already eaten that dinner anyway.”

“His mother can assure him I haven’t. Shit. I won’t commit adultery with another man’s wife.” Aristotle would be appalled.

“Then take the widow. Don’t marry her, though. She’s been through two men already and she’s too old. But keeping her as your _pallake_ ”—a formal mistress—“would work. We know she’s fertile. She gave brats to Mentor and Memnon both. And she speaks Greek.”

“And her brother is commanding Darius’s fleet. You think if I bed her, he’ll surrender?”

“Not any more than Darius, but he might not hit Antigonos as hard, up in Ionia.”

Alexander turned away and paced, hands on hips. They were alone in an upstairs room of the house Alexander had commandeered after Byblos’s surrender. It reminded him more of houses he’d seen in Athens or Corinth, or even Ephesos or Miletos, than in Macedonia. External walls were whitewashed plaster under a red-tile roof, and wide doors caught afternoon breezes off the sea. A large courtyard held garden flowers and a pair of date palms in the center; he’d had ripe dates from the fall harvest every night since coming here. In this upstairs room, frescos of blue, red, and yellow decorated the walls, floral themes or wild-animal hunts, and there were two tables and a writing desk, plus two large chests in a corner, one full of precious papyrus, and a ceiling-high cabinet for book scrolls.

The house had been the office of the king of Byblos, or “kinglet,” really. The Tyrian cities were loosely confederated, each with its own ruler, confirmed by the Persian Great King. But like the Greek cities-states, they quarreled in their mercantile ventures as often as they cooperated.  Byblos monopolized papyrus, Sidon glass, and Tyre the much-sought-after purple dye. But all of them had harbors and Alexander intended to seal those harbors against the Persian fleet—either by voluntary surrender, or by siege. Byblos had been smart; they’d surrendered. Alexander hoped both Sidon and Tyre would follow suit.

This wasn’t the first time Parmenion had spoken to him about Darius’s women. He’d been harping on it since he’d captured them with the rest of Darius’s train at Damascus, and Alexander had kept putting him off, procrastinating.

The king wasn’t an idiot. He knew he needed an heir even though he’d refused to marry before embarking on the Persian campaign despite both Antipatros and Parmenion encouraging him to do so. But they’d hoped to marry him to one of _their_ daughters, giving them a stronger hold on him, which was exactly why he’d refused. He supposed he could have married both girls; his father had married his first five wives in his first five years on the throne. But his father also hadn’t had any problem keeping five wives busy, either.

Alexander liked women. He liked talking to them, more than most men did, in fact. He just didn’t like fucking them. He was perfectly capable, had proved it on several occasions, but it wasn’t his preference. When he’d been younger, he’d assumed that might change. Most men went from youths and boys to women, settled down, got married, had kids, maybe kept a mistress on the side or the occasional boyfriend. Alexander had figured he’d be like anybody else, albeit with more wives because he’d need to make political marriages like his father and grandfather.

Except as he’d aged, girls hadn’t begun to entice him more. And when naked gymnasts or dancers appeared at supper parties, it wasn’t pert, bouncing, pink-tipped breasts that caught his eye, and it wasn’t images of men fucking prostitutes on wine cups that aroused him. His own, which Hephaistion had given him, was a large, tooled silver palm cup with a relief medallion in the bottom of a beardless youth climbing atop an older boy with a raging hard-on, all revealed when the wine was gone. And if the images looked a little like the two of them, well, Hephaistion—the lecher—had clearly commissioned it, not found it at market.

After his father’s murder and his own rise to the throne, he’d begun to understand the parade of people through his father’s bedchamber. Philip hadn’t dared give too much attention to any single person, or fall in love with one who might try to exercise power over him. Alexander’s solution had been to cling to Hephaistion, his old love, even if they’d renegotiated what they were doing. But somewhere in the last few years, he’d realized that his choice wasn’t just because it was easier, or because he could trust Hephaistion.

Alexander preferred men. And _men_ , too, not boys, which was why none of his Pages appealed. He hadn’t wanted a boy since he’d been a boy. That wasn’t going to change.

He’d thought he could put this off longer. And maybe, somewhere in the back of his head, he'd still been hoping his desires would suddenly transform to meet expectations: he’d “grow up,” as Parmenion had so bluntly put it.

He crossed to look out the door onto the balcony but didn’t exit. He could see the sea from here, a hazy wine-deep hue in the distance. Seagulls screamed overhead and the sky was partly overcast, sun breaking through now and then to stream onto the dirty streets of the port city, flush with people going about their business. Behind him, Parmenion stayed quiet, letting him wrestle with his demons.

The Old Man could be uncomfortably blunt, but he was right. In half a year, Alexander would be twenty-five. By this age, his father had already produced two children, one a boy, although Arrhidaios had turned out unhealthy. Alexander himself had been born when his father was just twenty-six. And if he certainly hoped he’d live long enough to see more gray hair in the mirror than blond, most Macedonian kings died on the young side.

So he needed to do something about an heir, even if only a bastard stop-gap. He didn’t want to, but he did a lot of things he didn’t want to do. He rarely wanted to get up at dawn and go running, but he did. Every single day, he took a run, unless there was a battle in the offing. Even on the march, he’d run beside a chariot, leaping up into it now and then to rest. His men knew he could run any of them into the ground, or match them in battle stamina.

He also read all his own mail, didn’t leave it to secretaries. He might not personally answer all of it, but he answered a lot, especially to officers he’d left in his rear, or to Antipatros and others back in Macedonia. It was tedious, but he did it because he knew it meant something to a man for his king to reply in his own hand. They risked their necks for him on the battlefield because he talked to them off of it.

He didn’t like dealing with bureaucracy either; it was deadly boring, like this formal dinner he had to attend tonight with the Byblos City Council. Herakles save him from a bunch of dinner speeches from old men who’d done nothing more exciting in their lives than pontificate in the Assembly about their own family’s wealth and influence. Yet again, it was necessary. Cities, and armies, didn’t run themselves. Nor did empires. If he wanted to win one, he’d also have to manage it.

And _there_ might be a good reason to die in glorious battle, like Achilles. No more bureaucracy.

He snorted at the thought.

In any case, and as Aristotle had taught him—and his father, too, for that matter—a successful man disciplined himself to do what he didn’t want to do in pursuit of his larger goal. Alexander was a master of discipline.

Turning back finally, he uncrossed arms and approached Parmenion, who’d rested one hip on the side of a table. “I should have someone formally negotiate for me, give her a proper contract.” A mistress might not be a wife, but she wasn’t some common prostitute or even _hetaira_. “I don’t want to insult her; she’s a fucking satrap’s daughter. Her father is with her brother and the navy, but I suppose the Persian Queen Mother could act as a stand-in.”

“You want me to handle it?”

“If you would.” Alexander looked up at him. The Old Man wasn’t as tall as Hephaistion, or his own son Philotas, but he was still taller than Alexander even when propped on a table. Most men were. Alexander had got over it on the day they’d all passed between the halves of a cut dog and swore fealty to him as King of Macedon. “I suppose I could do it myself, but I’m under thirty. You were my father’s best friend. You can stand in as my father.”

Nodding, Parmenion clapped Alexander on the shoulder. “I’d be honored, son.  Fuck her silly and get her pregnant. We’re low on Temenids at the moment.”

Alexander made a face. “Ironic, given how much fucking my father did.” Which was true. With Philip’s reputation one would have expected him to be swimming in offspring, legitimate or not. Instead there were just two boys and three daughters who’d made it to adulthood. A few more had died in infancy—one at his mother’s own hands—but it was a thin output, comparatively.

“At least,” he added, “being low on Temenids keeps down assassination attempts and civil war. I’d rather not watch my back with a brace of ambitious half-brothers like my father had to. One shit-eating cousin was plenty. Arrhidaios doesn’t count.”

“You’ve got him with you, anyway.” Parmenion picked up his gold-trimmed scarlet cloak where he’d tossed it over a chair when he’d come in for his appointment with the king. Philip had given it to him years ago, marking him Second in the army, an office only a fool would kick him out of. “The army will be relieved when they know there’s a bun in the oven, even a bastard. Then you can do whatever the fuck you like. Although you need to _marry_ that little princess, sooner rather than later—maybe marry both Darius’s pretty daughters.”

“I’d planned on marrying one of them. Just…not yet. The elder’s only _nine_.”

Parmenion shot him an amused look from crinkled, gray eyes. Once-blond hair had gone gray, making a little fringe around an essentially bald plate. His high nose stood out like a knife. “That’s not the problem. You could marry her now and say you won’t touch her till she bleeds. Your father pledged himself to Olympias when she was no older. It’s good royal politics. We both know why you’ve been putting this off.”

Alexander blushed. “I’m doing my goddamn duty.”

“So you are. I won’t say more about it.”

“But you’ll still think more about it.”

“I think about a lot of things I don’t say. Not all of it’s bad.”

The king looked up sharply. “I assumed you didn’t approve.”

“It’s not for me to approve or disapprove. At least you’ve got good taste.”

“I don’t love him for his fucking _face_.”

Parmenion’s expression turned…thoughtful. “I didn’t assume you did, son. I like Amyntor’s boy. He knows his place—doesn’t take advantage. He’s got common sense. You’re loyal to each other. It might be…odd…but neither of you makes a spectacle. Although I did hear one of you yelling mighty loudly the other night. Must have been fun.” Parmenion winked at him.

Blushing so hard his neck burned, Alexander ran a hand through his hair. “Is all that what Parmenion thinks, or what the army thinks?”

“It’s what Parmenion thinks, and probably some of the army. But I’m not in the habit of gossiping. Ask my son if you want gossip.” That was offered ruefully. Alexander thought there might be some of the same tension between Parmenion and Philotas as had existed between himself and his own father. The two weren’t much alike, and Philotas was ambitious.

“You win battles,” Parmenion went on. “The men know that. Keep winning and father a few sons and nobody is going to care, much, who warms your bed most of the time—at least as long as your bed partner doesn’t stab you in the back.”

Which was what had happened to Alexander’s father.

“Hephaistion isn’t insane.”

“Pausanias wasn’t either, at least not at the beginning.”

 _Who drove him insane_? Yet both men knew the answer. And that was why Alexander would never follow his father in his treatment of lovers.

“I’ll go draw up a contract for Barsine, then let you look it over before taking it to the royal women.”

“All right. Thank you.”

When Parmenion was gone, the king collapsed into a chair. He had a lot of work to do, and then that blasted dinner, but he didn’t feel like doing any of it.

How was he going to tell Hephaistion?

More importantly, _what_ was he going to tell Hephaistion?


	2. A Dinner Party

This would be his first public appearance at a formal council meeting in a Phoenician city, even if it was primarily a meal.  When he’d received Byblos’s surrender, he’d done so in full battle kit to make a point. Now, he needed to make a different point. This was war no longer for Byblos, and both Sidon and Tyre had sent representatives to take his measure, so he wanted them to see what happened when cities cooperated.

He’d bathed and dressed carefully in a long-sleeved wool winter _chiton_ , good sandals, and a cloak he’d found among the spoils from Damascus. It had probably been Darius’s third-best cloak, maybe even fourth-best. Alexander had never seen anything like it. All purple Egyptian linen ripened by the sun to a brilliant pale lucidity, it was shot with gold, silver, and copper threads along the border in the form of bulls, stags, griffins, and lions.

Wearing this, he truly felt like a _king_.

He came out of the former king’s house to be met by that evening’s pair of Somatophylakes—his Bodyguard—but also a _dekas_ of Hypaspists. Both, in fact, were his Guard, one in peace, one in combat. The Somatophylakes weren’t a distinct army unit but served variously during battle. Being among the Seven was an honorary position, and tonight, one of the two was none other than Admetos, plucked by Philip from relative obscurity in Epiros. A titan of a man, broad in body as well as tall, he’d proved worthy of Philip’s confidence, rising steadily until chosen not only for the Somatophylakes but also to command the Hypaspists _agema_ , the king’s personal guard in battle. Hence, tonight, he served double-duty.

“Present arms!” he bellowed as Alexander exited. All sixteen Hypaspists snapped to attention, slamming spear butts on the flagstones of the house forecourt. A versatile unit, the Hypaspists served many roles in combat, but their most fundamental armament was as traditional hoplites, not Macedonian _sarrissaphoi_ , the regular infantry with the sixteen-foot pike. So sixteen _aspides_ , the big round hoplite shields, met Alexander, with shorter spears upright, Phrygian helms down, bronze shining in evening torchlight. Each shield was unique, bearing that man’s standard, and one of the sixteen helms had officer’s feathers: the _lochagos_ , the leader of that _dekas_.

Hephaistion.

Alexander hadn’t asked for it, but Admetos had picked Hephaistion’s _dekas_ anyway. The king didn’t recognize Hephaistion further than the short nod he gave all of them. At Hephaistion’s curt command, they struck their spears twice on their shields, the age-old acknowledgement from spear-bearers to commander that they were ready to fight for him. Then enclosing Alexander in a block led by the two Somatophylakes, they marched through the streets of Byblos to the house of the president of the City Council, who now ran the Assembly after the flight of the king.

As he’d expected, Alexander found dinner dreadfully boring. Too bad he couldn’t have fun making jokes with Hephaistion, but Alexander strictly observed his friend’s duty, and not just for Hephaistion’s sake. He’d do the same with any of his childhood friends who’d gone on to become junior officers. They needed to be respected for themselves. He not only understood that, but insisted on it. As a boy, still half spoiled by his mother’s coddling, he’d been annoyed when his father had overlooked him or treated him like any other soldier. Older, he’d come to understand the grace in it, and now extended the same respect to his friends. Hephaistion was his officer tonight, not his lover.

He still looked fucking magnificent in his armor.

He wore a bronze muscle cuirass instead of the more usual linothorax made of glue-fused linen, the type Alexander preferred. Then again, Alexander usually rode, and it was nigh on impossible to ride in a bronze cuirass unless it was unduly short at the waist. Hephaistion had a linothorax, too, but often wore the bronze. He was a big man, if not like Admetos, yet _size_ was one of the requirements for the Hypaspists. It was a picked unit, not a regional one. Bronze greaves covered his shins and his high Phrygian helm glittered gold in dinner lamplight, a white feather on each side marking his position as an officer. His shield device was a red octopus on dark blue. Hardly awe-inspiring but a joke on his part, directed at his king. “I need eight arms to fend you off!” Alexander had told him once when they’d been young and freshly new to sex. Alexander hadn’t really objected, but Hephaistion’s needs had been strong.

Years later, when he’d been inducted into the Hypaspists, he’d shown his king his new shield. “I’ll need eight arms to protect you, you reckless idiot.”

So Hephaistion was his _Hypaspistes Oktopos_ , and fought like it. But tonight was just honorary, so Alexander listened to a lot of speeches, ate excellent food—including grilled octopus—and kept his mouth shut, taking the measure of the Phoenicians, especially the Sidonians and Tyrians. Byblos was in his hands.  The other two weren’t yet, though Sidon appeared inclined that way. Tyre, not so much.

After the meal broke up, Alexander made sure to address both sets of envoys. The Sidonians simpered, informing him that their Persian-appointed king had already fled. Sidon had history with Persia, and it wasn’t good. He could tick off that town as won, even if it wasn’t official yet.

Tyre was polite but cagey. They gave lip service to recognizing his authority, and Alexander promised several talents for the upkeep of their great temple of Melquart, the Greek Herakles, his ancestor. It was nice gesture, and after winning Darius’s treasury after Issos, he had the cash. He added that he planned to make an appropriate sacrifice to Melquart in thanks for his victory at Issos. The Tyrians had bowed, but stiffly, informing him that the temple in Old Tyre on the mainland was an ancient site. “We make pilgrimages there for our most sacred festivals. We’re sure you’d prefer to use that one, the original.”

Loggerheads.  They knew he wanted access to their island, with religion as an excuse, and they were telling him he couldn’t have it by offering the older sanctuary.

Almost against his will, he glanced at Hephaistion, still on guard.  His friend gave no sign, but Alexander was sure he’d heard the reply.

Thanking the Tyrians, if a bit brusquely, and the Sidonians more honestly, as well as the president of the Council of Byblos, he claimed an early night.

His honor guard escorted him back to his royal quarters, then Admetos dismissed the men while Pages took up duty outside the building, and Admetos and Demetrios, the evening Bodyguard, remained on regular duty on the first floor, stationed to either side of the staircase to the upper, private, level. Most of the Hypaspists took off, headed for the city gate, including the three who were supposedly Hephaistion’s tentmates. Only higher officers were bivouacked in city housing; there just wasn’t enough space and when a town surrendered, Alexander insisted on treating it fairly. Most of his army was still encamped beyond the city walls.

Hephaistion, of course remained, although he’d taken off his helmet, his curly damp hair sticking to his skull. He followed Alexander inside and upstairs. Neither of the Somatophylakes said anything. They never did.

In the big bedroom across from the office, Hephaistion laid his spear against a wall along with his octopus shield, then pulled off his greaves and unhinged his breastplate. His face was conflicted.

Alexander walked up behind to help undo the protective felt padding under the cuirass. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight. Did Admetos say why your squad?”

“Motherfucker thought I might ‘find tonight’s conversation useful.’”

Alexander turned him around, looking up into dark eyes.  “Did you?”

Hephaistion’s expression was annoyed. “Yes. But I don’t need to be put on duty just so I can eavesdrop on diplomatic meetings to counsel you later as pillow talk. My men know what this was about.”

Which was a good point. Admetos meant well, and if he was far from the beefy brainless sort, he didn’t always show shrewd discretion. He was a mighty fighter, not necessarily a good diplomat.

“Will it affect your command?”

“I hope not.”

“Will it?”

“No.”

“Hephaistion?”

“ _No_ , damnit! My men know we’re lovers; they don’t care because you don’t fucking favor me. Admetos favors me more than you do, which is fucking annoying. Asshat.”

“I’ll talk to him about it.”

“Don’t. That’s likely to make it worse because then he’ll go the other way. Like I said, for the most part, my men don’t give me shit unless I actually deserve it.”

Alexander doffed his fancy cloak and sandals, watching while Hephaistion sat down to unlace his boots. He poured Hephaistion wine, cutting it only a little with water. “Shall I call for hot water for you? I bathed earlier.”

“No, I’m tired. I want to eat and go to bed. You can deal with me stinky.”

Alexander handed him a winecup—his own cup in fact, with the relief of them on the bottom. Reassurance.

They needed to talk, tonight, before any rumors might start. But his friend was cranky. Bad timing. Hephaistion downed almost the whole cup’s contents in one long swallow.

“Shit,” Alexander observed.

“It’s been that kind of day.”

“You can tell me in a moment.” He stepped out into the hall, calling over one of the slaves. “Bring me more wine, plus cold, cured beef or whatever meat the kitchen has ready, lentil soup, honeyed dates, and sour bread for Hephaistion. Lots of the meat.”

The quickest way to Hephaistion’s heart was through his stomach.

“I’m getting you dinner,” he explained, coming back in.

“Thanks.”

The bed in the former king’s chamber might not match Darius’s, now Alexander’s, but it was roomier than any Greek couch. These Easterners liked their luxuries, though Alexander had been convinced of the value of beds big enough to fit two comfortably. He plopped down on it, watching as Hephaistion poured himself more wine—no water at all. “Do you want any? I see I have your cup.”

“I had plenty at dinner.” He needed his mind clear for the conversation they needed to have. “Come to bed, at least until your food arrives.”

Dressed now in a simple dun undertunic, Hephaistion did so. Still wearing the heavier wool chiton, Alexander wrapped him close. “You are stinky,” he said. “Fortunately, I find your sweat an aphrodisiac.”

“You can sniff my hairy armpit then.” Hephaistion offered it and Alexander laughed. It broke a little of the tension. They just grinned at each other, lying side by side. “Sorry I’m snappy. Like I said, it’s been an annoying day.”

Rolling up on an elbow, Alexander tilted his head sideways. “Tell me?”

“Just little shit.” He pointed to his boots on the floor. “Damn strap broke during drill, so I had to skip lunch mess to fix it and wound up with just bread. Then I lost two fucking drachmai at dice.”

“I thought you hated dice?”

“I do, because I fucking lose money.” He ran a hand through his messy hair, which only made it messier. “But it’s good for morale to spend time with the men; I’ve learned a few things, watching you.”

“Mmm. Nice to know you watch me.”

Hephaistion’s grin turned wicked. “I watch you _very_ closely, my lord. You are, after all, my king. I especially like watching you in the bath.”

“Smart ass.”

“Anyway, after that, I got elbowed in the ribs at wrestling”—he pointed to a new bruise on his side, which Alexander obediently kissed—“and to top it off, Admetos showed up to put my squad on dinner duty, so I didn’t get to eat again, _and_ I had to make my men miss dinner, too. Admetos wants us all back on the field an hour past sunrise tomorrow. So tonight, I want food and sleep.”

“Not sex?”

“Actually, no. Not feeling up to it. Pun intended.”

Alexander might have made a crack about iron floating but instead said, “If I’d known you were that hungry, I’d have saved some of the octopus for my octopus.”

Hephaistion chuckled. "I'll skip anything that's been swimming." Alexander laid back down, still on his side so he could study Hephaistion’s face. “What _did_ you think of tonight’s theater?”

“Sidon will surrender; they’ve already exiled their Persian-appointed king. It’s just formalities at this point.”

Alexander nodded. He’d thought the same.

“Tyre’s going to refuse. They’re on an island; they think they’re untouchable. But you need to keep troops in both Byblos and Sidon. If they believe Tyre can defeat you, they’ll break their treaty and come at you from the rear.”

“Can I defeat Tyre?”

“I don’t know. You’re the military genius, you tell me. Nebuchadnezzar spent ten years trying to reduce that city and failed. That’s why they’re arrogant.”

“Nebuchadnezzar didn’t have torsion catapults and siege towers.” Alexander rose on an elbow again, restless. “Tyre might have withstood Nebuchadnezzar, but they’ve never met Macedonian artillery.”

“So you think you can reduce them?”

“Yes. It’ll take time, but yes. If they force me. They’re playing with old toys.”

“And you have new ones?”

“I have amazing new ones.” He looked down at his friend. “I just hope they come to their senses. I don’t want to waste time on a siege, but if they refuse to surrender, I can, and will.”

“But do you _have_ to?”

That was, perhaps, the key question, one Alexander knew his army would ask.

“Yes, Phaistonaki. Think about it. You know—”

He’d have said more, but a sharp knock on the door interrupted.  They both rose.  It was Hephaistion’s dinner, carried over to a small side table. Hephaistion sat down to eat with gusto. Alexander watched, stealing a honeyed date now and then. He found Hephaistion’s earthiness endearing. His friend didn’t suffer curling shame for a lack of physical self-control. Yet being earthy didn’t detract from his intellect, which was sharp and pointed. He didn’t apologize for his needs, didn’t see a reason to, and that was why Alexander needed him to anchor them in the physical without rejecting the intellectual. Hephaistion had some native gift for balancing the two.

And once Hephaistion was fed, they were going to have to have a difficult conversation where Alexander would rely on his friend’s innate ability to navigate both heart and head.


	3. Seeing Real

They talked more about Tyre. Or really, Alexander did. Hephaistion ate and listened as his friend pontificated on the importance of controlling the coast.

Finished with the food, Hephaistion let Alexander disrobe them both and lead them to bed. They curled under fleece, face to face. “So, I told you about my day; you didn’t tell me about yours. What’s been bothering you all evening, Alekos?”

Gods. Alexander hated how Hephaistion could do that, read him like a public inscription. He might have objected, but there was little point. It just opened the door. “I had a conversation with Parmenion this afternoon.”

One of Hephaistion’s dark eyebrows rose.  “And?”

“We talked about the royal Persian women.” Alexander sat up abruptly, unable to lie so close to his lover and deliver this news. Hephaistion’s expression was flat, full lips pulled tight, eyes not giving away anything.

“I’m going to offer a contract to Barsine, to become my _pallake_.” Mistress.

A long silence followed. “All right,” Hephaistion replied finally.

“I need an heir.”

“Or at least a bastard who’ll do in a pinch,” Hephaistion replied.

Fair enough. “This changes nothing between us.”

“Then why are you acting like it does?”

Alexander met Hephaistion’s dark eyes. He saw pain there, but mostly confusion. “You’ve always known I’d have to marry.”

“Of course I did.” Hephaistion sat up, too. “You’re king. But why’re you making a show of it, if it _won’t_ change us?”

“I just wanted to tell you, personally, before word of the negotiations became public. It’s not marriage, but—.”

“If you say it doesn’t change us, I believe you. But when you _act_ like it does, I get nervous.” The sweaty curls on one side of his head were flat.

Relieved, Alexander buried his face in his friend’s neck and hugged him tightly. “I was afraid of how you’d take it.”

“You’ve had sex with women before.” Hephaistion hugged Alexander back.

“But only for a night or two. With Barsine, I’ll need to house her in my quarters in Sidon and visit regularly.” He pulled away, adding, “I’ll assign you quarters near mine.”

“But not _your_ chambers?” Erupting from the bed, Hephaistion stalked about the dark room.  “You said it wouldn’t affect us.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Yet you banish me from your bedchamber?”

“Of course not! I didn’t _banish_ you from anything!”

“Then what would you _call_ that?”

“Giving you official quarters like before with the Hypaspists. You have an assigned tent there, but sleep with me. She’ll have her own rooms; I’ll go to her there.”

Silence stretched while all their idealism slammed up against ugly reality. Abruptly, Hephaistion collapsed onto the reed-thrush floor near the doorway, sobbing in heaves. Alexander scrambled out to cross and embrace him. “Stop,” he whispered. “Oh, gods, Phaistonaki. This is about heirs, not about you.”

“I know,” Hephaistion sobbed. “I’m being stupid. I knew this would come. I’ve advised you to it before myself. But now that it’s happening, I …” His voice cracked. “I don’t want to share you.”

His lover could be an idiot, but at least he was an honest idiot.

Alexander wrapped arms and legs around him on the soft rush floor. “ _That’s_ the truth. Now we can talk. Tell me more.”

“I’m selfish.”

“You’re the least selfish person I know. You’re also the only man I will ever love with all my heart. The only _person_ I’ll ever love with all my heart.”

Hephaistion had buried his face in Alexander’s neck. “I’m being stupid, please forgive me.”

“You’re being _honest_ , so no. I won’t forgive you. There’s nothing to forgive.” He tilted up Hephaistion’s face and kissed him. He could taste tear salt on Hephaistion’s lips.

“I know you have to marry, produce heirs,” Hephaistion whispered. “I want you to. And I should probably have them, too. But I don’t want to.  I only want you. How ridiculous is that?”

“Not at all,” Alexander told him, pushing his face against the side of Hephaistion’s. “I only want you, too. But this world isn’t friendly to us. I just didn’t want you to think I was shoving you aside.” He pulled his face back to stare at Hephaistion’s profile. “You are the center of my world. You always will be. You can come and go in my chamber, in my bed, no leave needed, forever.”

“But I need a bed and chamber of my own now,” Hephaistion finished. It was bitter.

Alexander didn’t answer immediately, because it was true, and he ached to admit it.

“Yours will always be near mine,” he said instead.

“That’s not helping,” Hephaistion replied. He rose to stalk the room again, as if looking for something.

Alexander followed with his eyes but remained seated. “What?”

“I need to go. I need to be alone. But I don’t have my own rooms yet.”

Erupting to his feet, Alexander caught him. “Please don’t. Gods, please don’t. I told you, you’re the center of my world, _agapete_.”

“I need to cry!”

“Cry with me then. Do you think I want this? I hate it. I hate it all. I don’t want a mistress, or a wife. I want only you. I’ve only ever wanted you. But I need to be king. If I walk away, who else would it be?”

And there, suddenly, naked, was the choice.

His ambition versus his passion.

Which was higher? Alexander wanted to say passion, but he knew it was ambition.

Hephaistion was staring at him, and Alexander suspected he was asking the same question. And knew the same answer. “Stay here,” Alexander whispered. “This is your room while we’re in Byblos. In Sidon, I’ll find you a house near mine, and my rooms are open always to you.”

“Even if you’ve got her in them?”

“I said I wouldn’t bring her to my rooms; I’ll visit hers. You can come any time.”

Hephaistion pulled out of Alexander’s grasp, looking around for a moment, almost wild-eyed, then he grabbed a random bag and his most immediate personals, tossing them in. It took Alexander a moment to realize what was actually happening. “Are you _leaving_?”

“I’ll need my own house in Sidon. Let’s make the break clean. I’ll go back to my tent tonight.”

Stunned, Alexander couldn’t reply for a moment, then said, “By the gods, no!”

“I can’t fucking sleep here tonight! I can’t bear to see you right now!”

He may as well have put his spear right through Alexander’s chest. He kept packing, including his armor. “I have to get out of this room. I need to be alone.”

Alexander was too stunned to feel much, but he wasn’t about to let Hephaistion leave at this hour and return to the Macedonian camp.  Walking out into the hall, he called again for the slave.  “Make a room with a bed for _Lochigos_ Hephaistion,” he ordered. Then he stood in the hallway, just staring at the opposite wall. He couldn’t go back in and watch his life fall apart.

When Hephaistion exited, Alexander wouldn’t look at him. “Down the hall. You’re not going back to camp. I’ve had a bed made up for you there.” He gestured to the slave, and Hephaistion followed him. Alexander couldn’t watch that either.

He reentered the bed chamber, sitting on the big bed he didn’t need anymore. He should be up early. As always, there was business to conduct, but he kept sitting, staring at the floor.  Then he rose, lighting every lamp in the room, as if enough light would drive out the shadows. Lying down in the middle of the floor, he curled into a ball and cried until he was sick.

At some point, he finally fell asleep. It was fitful.

A hard rap on the door woke him before the sun was fully up. Stiff from an awkward night on room rushes, he pushed to his feet. He was sure his eyes were swollen. He answered the door.

It was Hephaistion, already in drill armor with shield and spear. He didn’t look any better than Alexander probably did.

“Can I come in?”

He’d never needed to ask before.

Alexander stood aside, admitting him. The king had no idea what was coming, but no one had ever accused him of cowardice. Setting down his helm on a table, Hephaistion appeared just as uncertain. Alexander was sure the armor wasn’t by accident. “I’m sorry for my temper. Yesterday was bad.”

A light of hope flickered in Alexander’s chest. They’d fought before and made up. Lovers did. “I made it worse. I’m sorry. Can we start again?”

Hephaistion glanced up. “You need to do this—take a mistress. But I haven’t changed my mind, either.”

Alexander sucked in a startled breath. “What?”

“If you really meant only to go to her in her rooms, yet won't let me stay in yours, maybe you need to think about why? You say ‘we’ haven’t changed, but that’s a big change. You’ve set me aside.”

“I haven’t--!”

“Shut up!”

They glared at each other. Hephaistion continued. “I’ve got to deal with the fall-out. The only thing worse than being the king’s beloved is when one stops being the king’s beloved. I’ll remove the rest of my things to camp after drill. I still have to command. Give me the space, and respect, to do so. My loyalty to you as my king hasn’t altered. I’ll still be your _Hypaspistes Oktopos_. But I won’t take second place when you try to tell me I’m first. I’m not a fool.”

Stricken mute in shock, Alexander had no idea what to say at first. This was the most terrible day of his life.

“You’re first in my world,” he asserted finally.

“No,” Hephaistion replied. “I’m not. Your desire to be Great King is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if Alexander was gay but having children/wives wouldn’t exclude it. Gay men can and do have sex with women, it’s just not our preference. While I doubt Barsine’s son Herakles was Alexander’s bastard (it’s sorta fishy, how he pops out of nowhere), Alexander probably did keep her as a mistress, which made the fiction of a “bastard” plausible later.
> 
> Anti-Parmenion propaganda was made up after Alexander had to kill him because Philotas did something stupid.
> 
> Alexander’s silver palm cup is a bigger version of those found in the Vergina Royal Tombs. Most have a picture in the bottom that the drinker would see only when the wine was gone.
> 
> The bit about Alexander as a runner is true, and supposedly, he did write to his soldiers, or at least dictated personal letters.
> 
> Admetos bought it big time at Tyre, so I wanted to give him a little due in advance.“Dekas” means a ten-unit, in Greek, but Philip increased the line to sixteen and didn’t change the name, and a lochagos would be a reasonable officer’s position for Hephaistion at that age. If Heckel is right, Hephaistion went on to command the Hypaspists agema later, but probably not immediately after Admetos’s death.


End file.
